Inbred Desires
by The Pardo Girls
Summary: Carlos Manoso isn't the only man of mystery at RangeMan. What does Ranger's number two man do with his down time? A peek behind that armor of Tank. A little one-shot for those curious about Tank and Grace Galloway. Co-written by Sonomom and Jago-ji.


_AN: This little one-shot follows 'A Gift of Grace,' as Tank continues his trips to Georgia to visit Grace Galloway. Tank is based on a character mentioned a few times in Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series. Grace is our original character. As usual, not making any money from this work of fiction._

 **Inbred Desires**

He was comfortable in her place and that made him laugh. He was many things, but a gentleman was not one of them. Tank knew Grace liked to keep him away from her more prestigious clients, and that was fine with him. Far from being hurt that she felt his manners weren't up to par, he was relieved. She'd been working on him in little ways, trying to gently mold him. She thought he hadn't noticed until the last time they were together. He'd mocked her, by drinking his morning coffee from a delicate cup with his pinky raised. He'd been amused. Grace had not.

She had an inbred desire to teach, to mold, to turn him into a pansy-assed tea sipper. That was unfair, he amended. She didn't care if he drank tea. She'd be just as pleased if he could sip whisky and discuss economics or current affairs with her other guests, in an Armani suit, of course.

There were several problems with that scenario. He would never fit into an Armani suit. His suits were custom-tailored and hung in the back of his closet. He wore them when Ranger insisted, or when someone died. He could discuss economics and personal finance. He was probably worth more than half her clients. He'd invested his generous RangeMan salary well, and learned a lot along the way, but he liked keeping that information to himself. As for current affairs, sure he could talk about things currently going on that most of the men in Grace's Gentleman's Club couldn't even imagine. He could teach them a thing or two about the world and its workings, but then … he'd have to shoot them.

This time he laughed out loud at his own joke. He flipped out the key fob and unlocked her back door. She hadn't given him a key. He'd kept one when RangeMan Atlanta had installed a new security system at his request.

He saw her standing at the end of the hall, the room behind her lit with soft romantic lights. He sighed as he saw a formally set table in the room. They'd eat before bed. That was okay, he was hungry. If Grace had an inbred desire to civilize the beast inside him, he had an inbred desire, too. He wanted to fuck her.

She greeted him with a chaste kiss on his cheek and a gesture to sit at the elegantly laid out table. The table's surface was covered with a gleaming white tablecloth and set with a confusing array of plates, silverware and drink containers. In the center was a tiered cake stand loaded with tiny delicate sandwiches, intricately decorated mini-bites of cake, and a variety of biscuits and scones. Off to the left was a silver tea set, ready for the pouring.

"You are pleasingly punctual, Pierre. I like that in a man," Grace acknowledged. "I hope you are hungry. We are having tea."

"No, thanks. I'd rather have coffee," Tank said, as he gingerly settled his substantial frame onto one of the spindly-legged chairs she seemed to fill her apartment with. He could never lean back and relax in them, afraid they would collapse at his slightest movement.

"When I say tea I am referring to an afternoon tea. It is a meal, Pierre. Actually, it is a social event with food. In my line of work, teas are my bread and butter," she said, a slow smile creasing her face. Tank remained blank-faced. "It is all right to laugh, my dear, when one tells a joke."

"When I hear one, I'll laugh."

Her smile left her face. She seated herself across from Tank and took the ornately folded linen napkin from the fine bone china plate in front of her and let the cloth unfold itself before she draped it across her lap. She looked pointedly at Tank.

"What?" he asked.

"Your napkin."

Tank took his napkin and tucked one end into the top of his shirt.

Grace closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. It took her a moment to open her eyes and when she spoke, it was with practiced calm. "It is customary to place the napkin on your lap."

Tank frowned, but put the napkin across his knee. He reached for one of the finger sandwiches and, before Grace could say anything, he popped the entire thing into his mouth. His face contorted, and he nearly spit out the offending morsel. "What the hell was that?" he uttered, swallowing and grimacing at the same time.

"That was a goat cheese and roasted pepper sandwich, with capers. I take it, it was not to your liking?" she asked sarcastically. "They are all different. I am sure there will be others more suited to your manly tastes."

He started to reach for another one, but asked, "What's in this one?"

"Carrot and raisin on brie," she responded.

Grimacing, he pointed to another one and looked quizzically at her. "Salmon and avocado," she said.

He picked that one and gingerly took a small nibble before nodding and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. He picked up another sandwich, but before he could eat it, Grace placed a restraining hand on his forearm.

"This sandwich has a particular history to it. I think you will appreciate it more if I tell you the story behind it."

"It's a cheese sandwich as far as I can tell," Tank said. "I know I'm not educated in the ways of finger food, but I know my way around a cheese sandwich."

"It is a pimento cheese sandwich," she replied. "In honor of the Master's Golf Tournament, the most prestigious golf tournament of all, played right here in Georgia."

"Golfers like cheese sandwiches?" he asked. He was having trouble keeping a straight face. He wasn't nearly as ignorant as she apparently thought, but it served his purpose to keep her unenlightened.

"It is a tradition in the South," she told him. He thought he heard just a note of exasperation in her voice. "Eating a pimento cheese sandwich at the Masters Tournament is like drinking a mint julep at the Kentucky Derby or drinking a hurricane at Pat O'Brien's while in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It is just something that you need to do to feel like you have enjoyed the Southern experience to the fullest." She lowered her voice, "And I want you to enjoy this tradition." She took her hand from his arm and watched as he ate the simple sandwich.

"That was good," Tank told her. "The best one I've tasted yet. But there is something else I need to taste if I'm to enjoy the Southern experience to the fullest." He reached across the table and captured her hand. He turned it palm upwards and brought it to his mouth. His tongue curved along the elevation of the mount of Venus. He alternated sucking and nipping with his straight white teeth until he felt her shiver. He looked at her half-closed eyes and knew she was remembering their last time together, and maybe anticipating this one. He'd bet money she wasn't thinking about sandwiches any longer.

"Grace, I think I'm finished with the tea. I'm ready for dessert. Something sweet. I have a terrible sweet tooth, you know."

She stood from the table and once again held her hand out to him. He didn't know if she wanted more nibbling or if she was going to lead him to her bed. When she began to walk toward the magnificent and sturdy four-poster, he stopped her.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, Grace," he told her. "But do you really think learning about sandwiches and tea is going to be beneficial to me? My life is different from the life you know."

"It is," she replied. "We live very different lives." He saw the truth in her eyes and wondered if she saw it reflected in his. This was temporary, they both knew it. He had no interest in learning about the finer points of Southern society. And Grace had a need to teach and transform men. She hadn't been able to do that with him. It had been just the opposite.

It had been a novel experience for her to be the student, and hot damn! She'd been an enthusiastic student! But they were beyond the realm of tutelage. He taught her almost everything he knew, and now it was down to the practicing stage. He had no problem with practicing, though, and judging from the expression in her eyes and the tug on his hand, she didn't either.

This situation would work for a while longer, but then they'd both need to find other people to tutor. And maybe find other people to learn from. For now, he found himself being pulled to her bed, and he pushed the future into the back of his mind.

...

As Tank collapsed to the side of the bed, Grace let out a huge breath of air and exclaimed, "Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. I do declare, Pierre, you literally take my breath away."

" _Butter my butt and call me a biscuit?"_ Tank queried. "Do you have any other Southern colloquialisms you want to share with me?"

With a wicked grin, she said, "The first thought that came to mind when we both ... climaxed, was 'Well, that really dills my pickle!'"

Tank laughed and then tucked an unruly strand of her hair behind her ear. "I'm assuming they don't teach anything like that in that proper finishing school you attended when you were a girl?"

She smiled and gave a throaty chuckle. "I should say not. An experience like this doesn't come until much later in a Southern girl's education," she drawled, enunciating each word clearly and slowly.

His dark skin was dripping with sweat, and the sweat wasn't just from the high humidity that Savannah was so famous for. Grace was sweating, too. Or, as she would say, she was glowing. According to Grace, women didn't sweat. Hell, they didn't even perspire. They glowed! That was much too prim and proper for his liking.

Fortunately, Grace matched his stamina and his insatiability when it came to sex. For all her high society airs and proper manners, she could be a wildcat in bed. And having her naked in bed next to him, even though they'd just made love, had him hard again. He rose to his knees and picked her up, turning her on to her stomach.

"Pierre, you cannot be ready again! And not like this—not in this unseemly position." She turned her head over her shoulder to glare at him. "A Southern lady does not ..."

Tank thrust his hips forward and the last word she spoke was, "Ooooh!"

Hours later, the numbness in his arm woke him from his nap. He felt Grace's head heavy on his bicep. He flexed to return circulation to his arm and shot Grace a sideways look. His laugh started at a low rumble and built to a full-out guffaw. Ms. Manners had cheese and pimento on the tip of her nose. Her response to his laugh was a most unladylike snore. His work here was done. He slid out of bed and began picking up his discarded clothing. The last flight to Newark was in a couple of hours, and he had a first-class ticket.


End file.
